


ZeroWingman - Her Showing

by Just_Matt



Series: Zerowingman [1]
Category: Project Wingman (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:07:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28630011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_Matt/pseuds/Just_Matt
Summary: /// CONTENT WARNING: SPOILERS FOR THE FINAL MISSION OF PROJECT WINGMAN ///- ENGAGE AT YOUR OWN RISK -Stirred by the fires of war, a primordial force awakens from the ruins of Presidia.A battle between kings is turned into a struggle against the divine.Whether they succeed or not, now depends solely on their resolve.
Series: Zerowingman [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112333
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. The Flash

**Author's Note:**

> A spur-of-the moment thing I wrote in like 4 hours, Inspired by Heartbreaker 1's incredible depiction of Dust Mother. 
> 
> If it sounds like Evangelion or Zeroranger (duh), it's because I absolutely ripped them off. 
> 
> For an Enhanced Experience (TM), please consider listening to this as you read:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pIb6Pqd5Dso
> 
> Thank you.

Bright red. 

As Monarch dodged and weaved between the seemingly endless swarm of micromissiles, the same that had put his entire squadron out of action in a matter of moments, all he could see out of the shaky cockpit of his fighter was bright red. 

“Monarch...break right…”

Right. Prez was there too. And she sounded like she was just about to pass out.

As the missile warnings were gradually replaced by small detonations, Monarch finally found the opportunity to level his trajectory and give his WSO a chance to breathe. Slowing down to 200 knots, the pilot also took a second to think about what had just happened - something he hadn’t had much time to do while jinking that last missile onslaught for minutes that felt like hours.

Bright red.

As he looked down onto what remained of Presidia, the situation became immediately clearer: Four giant craters had turned most of the inner city into a bright red nightmare, swallowing entire skyscrapers whole and leaving others leaning precariously. 

“...Monarch? This is...it, isn’t it? This is Prospero all over again.”

The four words he hoped he’d never hear in his life hit him just as he came to the realization himself - and for the first time since that day, he felt like he had been stabbed in the gut. This was not how it was supposed to go - not after everything the rebels had done. Not after everything Sicario had done. Not after everything he had done.

“I’m...picking up something on radar. Due North, bearing 356. Approaching fast. Too fast.”

Of course. 

“I don’t know if I can do this, Monarch...I’m braced.” 

She wasn’t going to. If that contact was who he thought he was, there was no chance in hell she was going to survive this. Monarch felt like apologizing, but it was too late for that. She knew what she signed up for, and so did he. So instead he cut off his radio and whispered something. Something she’ll never know, but that he needed to say - to himself, at the very least.

Almost on cue, the receiver in his helmet buzzed back to life. On the other side, the last voice he wanted to hear at a time like this.

“You’re a slave to history.”

God. Fucking. Damnit. 

It had to be him, it had to be. An arrogant child who couldn’t accept a proper schooling, who instead turned his inferiority complex into a pathetic obsession. The last man standing at the end of the world had to be him, because Dust Mother hated him and life was unfair like that.

“Even after Calamity, you fight against the only order that can guarantee the safety of your people.”

Monarch flicked his thumb and armed the fighter’s Semi-Actives. That blithering idiot was stuck on a jousting vector, undoubtedly preparing to unleash the full force of a senator-grade monologue onto his aching ears. He wasn’t going to let him have that. 

Twelve-thousand. Ten-thousand.

“You, solely, are responsible for this.”

Nine-thousand. Eight-thousand.

Now.

Monarch’s thumb slammed hard on the missile release, and for a moment he could picture it - that stupid little kid receiving a sobering uppercut in the form of 90 lbs of explosives, right in his face. A nice enough opener for what was probably going to be the fight of his life.

Except...things didn’t go exactly like that.

As the missile screamed towards Crimson's new fighter, a blinding beam of pure light rose from the ground, enveloped the plane whole and seemingly vaporized it. Not that Monarch could see for himself, as he was too busy covering his already strained eyes to make sure he could still land after whatever was happening now. 

“Monarch?! Monarch are you there?! What the hell is this?!”


	2. Intermission - Survivors

Inching across the ruins of Presidia, four lucky survivors looked up at the sky in silent awe. If what had happened before didn’t feel like the end of the world already, this certainly did.

“By the Dust…

“This...this isn’t what I meant when I said this world was about to be remade.”

“Uh, Dip? Did the Dust Bible or whatever mention anything like this in the “apocalypse” section?”

“It didn’t really have one, actually. This is...all new to me, hahah. I don’t wanna die. I don’t wanna die. I don’t wanna-”

“Awesome, we’re watching it live then. Hell of a show to go out on.”

“Well, gentlemen....I guess we really made history with this contract, huh? I have no idea whether there’ll be a world left for us if we survive this, so let’s just get this out of the way: it’s been an honor flying with you.”

“Same here, Frenken. Let’s just try and get out of here for now. Kennedy? Get a grip.”


	3. The Voice

White. Blinding white light.

That was all Monarch remembered seeing before presumably passing out - and, worryingly all he could see now that he came to. As he looked around for anything resembling useful data, he also noticed his cockpit was gone. Along with his entire fighter. And helmet. And...clothes?

With all that had happened so far, Sicario’s top dog didn’t really expect things to get any weirder. It was frustrating to be proven wrong literal seconds after his awakening. 

“Hmm?”

A deep, unnaturally deep voice echoed into his head. It felt like it had an accent, but he couldn’t quite place what kind. 

“What a surprise.”

What a surprise indeed. He was naked in a completely white abyss, exchanging pleasantries with a disembodied voice inside his head. For a moment, Monarch wondered if taking a swig off of Comic’s canteen before deployment had been a bad idea.

“I didn’t expect visitors so soon. It’s been a while since I met another of my kind.”

Well, at least whatever was speaking into his head was some sort of human being. That ruled out space aliens, which at that point felt much more comforting than it should have.

“Who am I? I’m but a humble fighter, just like you. Although I ask you to forgive my lack of...physical presence. I was stripped of such a luxury long ago.”

Another thing the two had in common, it seemed. Monarch smirked, cursing himself for thinking of such a horrible joke during what was probably some sort of spiritual ascension.

“How did I lose it? Well, I fought the Mother and...didn’t exactly win. Sure, it convinced her that mankind had the grit to handle her power, but...I still died. Or whatever this state is. I’m not sure myself, but I digress.”

So Dust Mother was real and had probably smote Crimson 1 out of the sky...for some reason. For all he tried, Monarch couldn’t really bring himself to feel the fear he knew he should have felt at that notion. Once that fear hit however, he was certain all the therapy in the world wouldn’t be enough to put his brain back together.

“More or less. If I were to guess, I’d wager the events of the last few months have left the Mother greatly upset - and that final stunt by your fellow airman, that was the last straw. Mother and that fighter of his...their power is one and the same. She couldn’t take an insult like that without reprisal, not after everything our kind has done."

Excellent, so Crimson 1’s hissy fit upset a literal godlike being, which was now preparing to smite mankind in response. A Peacekeeper to the end.

“It goes beyond that, but...if you wanted to simplify it for ease of oral transmission, that’d be it. So, I take it you understand what you need to do now?”

Kill God in a fighter jet. Piece of cake.

“I’m glad you caught on so quickly: I feel nothing but excruciating pain for every second of conscious existence that passes, so I don’t know how much longer I would have been able to keep this...well…"channel" open, so to speak. I’ll leave you to it, now. Hunt well, dear fighter.”


	4. Intermission 2 - Desperation

As the ground shook and grumbled, four lucky survivors kept their sights on the blinding light. Slowly but surely, it was taking the form of a slender, gracious figure covered in delicate white wings. Its shape was nothing but white light, except for a single pair of eyes - small black circles, as dark as the night sky. Their gaze was fixed onto the world beneath it, devoid of any emotion besides deep, palpable contempt for all that crawled on its ruined surface. 

Overtaken by a primal sense of guilt, one of the survivors fell to his knees, spouting ancient prayers faster than he could think of them, each word dripping with pure desperation.

“Goddamnit, Dip’s lost it!”

“I can’t blame him, that’s literally the god he believes in, right?”

“Yeah...I’m...I’m not feeling too good either, London.”

“I get that, Frenken. Let’s just...go. Or not. I don’t know.”

“Me neither. I’m...just tired, really.”

“You and me both, boss.”


	5. The End

“...Monarch please...I’m ok...I’m ok I swear...the others will be fine too, they know how to handle themselves...they probably landed safely...uh...somewhere! Just please, please wake up! MONARCH! PLEASE!”

The ace awakened to the pleads of his WSO, the second last thing he wanted to hear at a time like this. Then his eyes focused, and for the first time since his first combat deployment…

He felt fear.

A titanic figure of pure light had taken over the sky and was now looking straight at him, drilling through his soul with eyes the color of coal. Its gaze...no, Her gaze promised nothing but the complete undoing of his existence if he dared to fire even a single round in her general direction.

Monarch swallowed hard and thought back to that...voice. The man in the abyss, the one that had just finished explaining him how hard everyone on the planet was screwed: “my physical presence has been stripped from me long ago” he said. That bode well.

“Monarch...thank god. I...I still have no idea what is happening here, but...I trust you. I trust you we’ll get out of this alive. I don’t know if I should, maybe I’m just deluding myself to, you know, live my last moments feeling any sort of hope, but...I trust you’ll do the right thing, Monarch.”

For one last, long second, Monarch’s finger hovered over the safety of his jet’s railgun. He thought about it - about what this final act of defiance would entail. About flipping the AOA on instead, turning tail and flying until the fuel tanks ran dry. About spending the final hours of this planet with Prez, away from the pain and despair this war had unleashed upon the world. 

“I trust you’ll do the right thing.”, she said. 

So he did.

As the railgun’s electric motors whirred to life, Monarch reached for his helmet and, for the first time in days, switched something else on, too - his radio transmitter.

“Hitman One - Monarch and Prez. Ready to roll.”


End file.
